


All's Fair

by low_fi



Category: Batman (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bickering, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't post to other sites, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Finale, Slow Burn, Vomiting, extremely dangerous shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23630509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi
Summary: Several years after rejoining society, Ed and Oswald decide to play a game.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 64
Kudos: 162





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> low_fi: I'm so happy to finally be posting this! it's come a long way since the original pitch, and it has been tremendous fun to work on w/inkandcharcoal. hope y'all enjoy :)
> 
> Ink: It's been fun! 😘Strap in, everybody!

“Excuse me, sir, are you the Riddler?” 

Ed stops in his tracks and turns towards the source of the voice. A young man seems to have materialized on the sidewalk. He's alone, somewhat jittery, so Ed's first instinct is to glance down to his hands - but they're empty. 

Like a fever dream, the unaltered vision of Myrtle Jenkins descends upon him. He looks back up, remembering he's been asked a question. 

“No.” He tugs a sleeve into place and tries to brush past.

“Sir—,” the kid stops him with a warm, clammy hand on his shoulder, “It's a pretty distinct suit you're wearing.” 

Ed rolls his eyes and stops with a faint click of glittery heels.

“And yet you felt the need to ask,” he raises his eyebrows and tugs his coat back into place. “Well?” 

“Oh, right,” the young man clears his throat, “I was wondering if you could sign something for me? I'm a fan, you see.”

A fan! Well, he isn't quite Myrtle Jenkins, but when has that ever been a bad thing. Ed tilts his head back and studies the kid more carefully, growing curious, and—if he's being honest—vaguely flattered. The kid can't be older than twenty, blond, not particularly good-looking but making up for it with an honest face and a smart suit. 

“Fine.” 

Ed carefully lowers the toolbox in his hand onto a nearby step and reaches into his pocket for a pen. The young man hands him a calendar bound in leather. 

“Who do I make it out to?”

“Ignatius.” 

“How do you spell that?” 

“I-G-N…”

As he's writing, he notices movement over the rims of his glasses, like the young man is playing with something on his hand that most certainly wasn't there before. 

The blow catches him off guard. His hands fly to his face before the first waves of pain can register. That bastard got him right in the jaw! Blindly, Ed strikes out, but his assailant is already out of reach. Through the haze of pain, the world comes back into focus. 

Gone is the nervous, jittery kid: the man before him stares at him calmly, his left hand caressing the brass knuckles. 

He tries to straighten up despite the ringing in his ear, but two hands fall on his shoulders from behind, pushing him to the ground. Great. He brought friends. His knees painfully hit the pavement. 

“Okay,” he breathes, and runs his fingertips along his cheek to check for loose teeth. Except for the ones he already lost over a decade ago, everything's where it should be.

“Okay?” Ignatius repeats, faintly amused. 

“Who—”

A bag is thrown over his head from behind, leaving him in sudden and all-encompassing darkness. He stumbles almost immediately, unable to tell up from down as two pairs of hands manhandle him into what he assumes is an alleyway. 

He hears a car door open and a hand lands on his head, pushing it down. He's thrown into the back seat, then sandwiched between two bodies; when he tries to move, his hands are caught and bound. He swears under his breath.

The drive is short. He'd lost too much time struggling in the beginning, and before he can orient himself again, they're stopping. 

His feet nearly slip out from under him as he’s shoved out of the car and herded into a new location. The chill hits him immediately, gooseflesh prickling up his arms.

“Here you go, boss,” Ignatius’ voice reverberates through the room.

An unexpected shove between his shoulder blades sends Ed crashing to the floor. He scrambles to his knees and his left elbow twinges in protest when he puts his weight on it. He braces himself to leap to his feet and run but a hand clamps down on the back of his neck, pulling him back down. _This is it._ This is the end.

A hand tugs his hair through the fabric and the burlap sack is yanked off of his head, sending his glasses clattering to the floor. He pulls forward, struggling to feel for them with bound hands against the cold marble. The world is blurred, painted in blotches of colour and light. An object comes into relief just inches from his face: the barrel of a gun. 

“Thank you, Ignatius. Expect the funds to reach your account within the next two days. You can leave us now.”

He knows that voice. He mentally kicks himself for not making the connection sooner. 

With an affirmative grunt, the goons shuffle away and the door thuds shut behind them. Finally, Ed’s fingertips brush against the metal frame and he scoops up his glasses. 

“You cheated, Oswald,” he says, settling them onto the bridge of his nose. Oswald’s amused grin comes into focus from behind the pistol. 

“Cheated?” He splays a hand across his chest in mock offense. “No. Tripped you up, perhaps, with your own lack of foresight.” He holsters the gun and draws a knife from his inner jacket pocket. “We agreed to try and murder each other using any means available, and that’s exactly what I did.” 

He slices through the rope binding Ed’s wrists and offers him a hand up. Ignoring it, Ed shakily climbs to his feet.

“Hiring some thugs to do your dirty work for you hardly counts as successfully killing me.” Ed says, inspecting the now-frayed elbow of his suit jacket with a frown. He’d have to get it replaced. “That’s unfair.”

“All’s fair in love and war.” 

Ed continues to glare at him in angry exasperation. The moment passes. 

“I'll agree it was slightly…” Oswald dips his head and rolls his eyes, “Dickish.” 

They stare at each other. Ed shifts his weight between his feet. 

“So what does that mean?” 

Oswald sighs and stalks to the side. “Obviously, my win here is annulled.” 

Ed hesitates, searching his face for any sign of further wickedness. Reading him became second nature years ago, but it still comes as a surprise that Oswald, for once, is being genuine. Ed has to find his voice before he speaks. “I appreciate that.” 

“You should.” Oswald squeezes the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. 

The tension in the hall slowly dissipates, leaving Ed strangely tired. He pulls in a breath and straightens himself out, tugging at his sleeves and putting his tie back into place. 

He clears his throat. 

“How much did you pay him, anyway?”

“Twenty grand.” 

“Twenty grand? That’s all I’m worth?”

Oswald chuckles, his cheek dimpling.

“I'm afraid so.” 

“Unbelievable.” 

Ed saunters over to the bar and sits on one of the stools, hooking one leg over the other. He smooths his hand over his knee, assessing the damage being thrown on the sidewalk caused, and frowns. 

“Don't be a baby,” Oswald scoffs quietly, “You're fine.” 

“I didn't say anything.” He looks away, desperate for a change of topic. “So, who is this Ignatius?” 

Oswald limps over to join him, taking a seat next to his and resting his cane against the glass front of the bar. 

“Ignatius Ogilvy. A gun for hire, slightly more devious than the usual type,” he inhales, chest rising, “I have a feeling about him.” 

Ed bites down on something he should most certainly not say to Oswald's face. _I bet you do._

“I shouldn't stay too long,” he says instead, “Your people might get suspicious.” 

Oswald nods, looking somewhat dubious. 

“I'll send someone. We'll set up a meeting.” 

Ed doesn't move. It's been a while since he was last at the Iceberg; not for lack of opportunity, but it had never felt right to return here. He can't shake the faint chill.

“This was something of a misfire, then, wasn't it,” he grumbles, gently touching his face. It stings, and he bites back a hiss.

Oswald chuckles deep in his throat. 

“Oh, I'd say it was worth it.” 

“I'll see myself out, thanks.” 

“Nobody will stop you,” he assures. 

Nobody will, indeed. He crosses the hall in a few long steps, then yanks the doorknob and slips out into the hall. 

_Annulled._ It had better be. 

* 

Ed is halfway through making coffee when the doorbell rings. Eyes still half-blurred from sleep, he shuffles over to the door and peers through the peephole. The distorted fish-eye face of Ignatius Ogilvy grins back. Had the door been open, Ed would have slammed it in his smug face. He turns back towards his kitchen to plunge the French press when the buzzer sounds again, this time longer. 

“Nobody home **,** ” he snarls, voice still rough from sleep and dripping with distaste. 

“Come on, open up. I’ve got a message.” 

With a grunt of concession, he reaches for the table by the door, slipping a knife from its drawer into his pocket as he turns the doorknob. He absentmindedly rubs at his jaw, the ache reminding him of the now-yellowed bruises from their last encounter. _Fool me once._

Ignatius’ smile widens as he crosses the threshold and strides into the room. 

“Boss told me to give you this.” Ignatius turns to face him, a hand buried in his pocket. Before he can finish the motion Ed already has a knife pressed to his chest. 

“Mr Nygma,” he holds his hands up in surrender, “I come in peace.”

He wiggles the envelope slotted between his fingers. Ed snatches it out of his hand and tosses it onto the hallway table, the knife never leaving Ignatius' chest. He slips the blade underneath one of his waistcoat buttons and pries it off.

It rattles on the floor. Ignatius tenses, shoulders squaring, but holds his ground.

Ed clenches his jaw. 

“You’d better be.”

He lowers the knife and returns his attention to the envelope. The creamy paper feels thick underneath his fingers. He traces his name, set into the paper in aubergine ink. Typical Oswald.

_Dear Edward,_

_I think it’s about time we established some rules to this game of ours. In future encounters, I would like to avoid any accusations of cheating. Join me for lunch at The White Napkin at noon. Only fitting to discuss terms under a white flag._

_Yours truly,_

_Oswald_

Ed shoves the paper at Ignatius and turns back to retrieve his now tepid coffee from the counter. He takes a sip, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“Tell him I’ll be there.”

*

It's hard not to think back to the look on Ed's face when he had him dragged in not three hours after their game had begun. 

Oswald does feel a little guilty about it. Only a little. 

Growing impatient, he adjusts his grip on his cane and sighs. Ed is always late; it's no reason to panic, but the déjà vu is unpleasant. Probably a small attempt to get back at him. Deserved.

He smooths his hair down and jumps when Edward falls into the chair opposite his. 

He's dressed in a perfectly pressed silk suit, his hair combed back and gelled down. He looks pristine, straight off a cover, but Oswald sees it for what it is - an effort to draw attention away from the pale, but still noticeable bruises along his cheekbone.

It only serves to highlight them further. 

He smiles. Ed glares. 

“He could've broken my nose, you know,” he says, skipping a greeting. 

“He was under specific instructions not to.” 

Oswald takes a closer look at the bruises. The skin wasn't broken, but there's a faint purple undertone still visible just below his glasses. 

“You'll be fine,” he decides, sitting back again.

A waiter approaches them and Oswald orders, leaving Ed to frantically leaf through the menu. He settles for a salad. The food is brought to them quickly. 

“Edward,” Oswald leans in, “Stop frowning. We're here to negotiate rules, are we not?”

“I'm half-expecting Ignatius to jump out of the lettuce.” 

Oswald laughs, slicing into his fish. “No tricks, I promise.”

Ed finally takes up his fork and starts eating.

“What did you have in mind, then?” Oswald asks. 

“No bounties,” Ed points a finger at him, “And no thugs. I'm not interested in a match of intellect with you if you're just going to send your goons after me.” 

Oswald smiles. He can't ignore the warm tickle that comes with being named an equal by Ed Nygma, even when it should mean very little in context.

“But you see, Edward,” he clears his throat, “You have your own advantages. Your memory, your sheer… processing power, as it were. I can't just ask you to switch them off, can I? Why should I have one arm tied behind my back?” 

Ed takes a sip of his water.

“You make a good point. What are you without your minions, after all?” 

Oswald chokes. “Excuse me?”

He pointedly puts the glass down and smushes his salad down with his fork. 

“I'll have you know, Edward,” he says, “I…” He stops himself, takes a breath. He's being baited, but he can't help himself. “Alright,” he tilts his head to the side, “No goons. What else?”

“We can’t let a couple of outliers or simple luck skew the results: three consecutive kills to prove who really is best.”

“And how do we define kills?” He lifts his knife and jokingly jabs at the air. “First to draw blood?” 

“What? No! I was thinking until the other party concedes defeat—admits they’re bested.”

Oswald considers. He can’t exactly picture himself ‘conceding defeat’; one particularly harrowing afternoon in a greenhouse comes to mind. Then again, he would very much enjoy seeing Ed surrender. 

“Fine by me,” Oswald smiles, scraping his fork along the bones for any remaining meat, “And _no cocaine_.”

“But—”

“Or other stimulants. Or can’t you think properly without them?”

A flash of annoyance crosses Ed’s face, but the neutral mask quickly slips back on once more. He sets down his fork and regards him.

“Well played, Oswald.” 

He takes the compliment with a smile and nod. 

“Alright then, we have ourselves an agreement.” Ed extends a hand across the table. “One other thing,” he pulls back as Oswald reaches to take it, lowering his voice to where Oswald needs to strain to hear him over the hum of the other dining guests, “this stays a secret—can’t have the Bat interfering.”

Oswald grasps his hand and shakes it. 

“Obviously.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter CW for vomiting. A lot of vomiting.

Oswald spends the next few days in a state of what he would call healthy paranoia. It's a sort of vague feeling of unease, accompanied by some precautions, but not so many that they would make him even more paranoid by themselves.

He is careful. He has people taste his food for him (not something he'd bothered with before, but a habit he considers keeping even after their little game has a victor) and doubles his security. He doesn't get out much anyway, usually doing business at the Iceberg, and he always feels safe there. 

Then it occurs to him that maybe that sense of safety is misplaced. Staying in one place so long does make him predictable, and predictable is never secure. He starts keeping a more irregular schedule again. He goes out, on occasion. 

He doesn't hear from Edward.

He doesn't hear from him so long that he begins to wonder if something might've happened to him; the more self-satisfied corner of his mind suggests that he's made himself too difficult of a target. This is, after all, a form of stalemate; he has plans, but he also has a business to run. He doesn't know how to get Ed without also making himself vulnerable. 

Oswald calls him exactly once. To mock him. Inquire about his progress, maybe, but only as a means of making him look like a fool. Ed doesn't pick up the phone. 

The worry grows. 

He's on his way to the Iceberg one morning when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He picks up, fully expecting a check-up from Ignatius, but instead sees a familiar row of question marks - which Ed had changed his contact name to when he hacked him some time ago. 

“Having trouble?” he asks, picking up. 

“What makes you say that?” Ed purrs on the other end. He's definitely up to something. 

“It's just been so long since I've seen you,” Oswald answers in the same tone, watching the street through the greyish tint of his town car’s window, “I was getting worried.” 

Funny, how he's learned to say something completely honest in a tone that implies the exact opposite. 

The town car rolls up in front of the Iceberg, and the driver comes around to open the door for him. Oswald braces a hand on the handle of his umbrella and steps out, phone still pressed to his ear. 

“Riddle me this, Oswald,” Ed asks lightly, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice, “What's the one thing that could make Selina pounce on you?”

Oswald glances down to the sight of a red dot shivering over the centre of his chest. 

The driver takes a sudden and sharp step back, and before Oswald has a chance to use him as a meat shield, he feels a quick, dull impact to the side of his forehead. 

He closes his eyes instinctively. When he opens them again, there's an orange nerf dart on the sidewalk under his feet. 

He almost crushes the phone in his fist when he raises it to his ear again.

“What the hell was that?!” he shrieks.

“Gotcha,” Ed quips, then bursts out laughing, sounding entirely too satisfied with himself. 

“Where are you?” Oswald looks up and around, searching for the glimmer of a scope. 

“Don't make me do it twice.” 

“You're unbelievable,” he growls, making for the Lounge in quick, angry steps. 

There's a pause on the other end, then a quiet, alarmed chuckle. 

“I got you, Oswald,” Ed says, “Admit it. Stop walking. I said—Oswald! Stop walking!” 

Oswald stops.

“You won,” he grants, but doesn't look anywhere in particular this time, letting his gaze skate over the rooftops. “Very good. Keep at it.” 

There's a hitch. Ed makes that noise, the one that tries to leave his throat and fails when he stops himself at the last moment, and then there's a beep. 

*

The trap is set. Now, to spring it. 

Oswald’s driver, preoccupied with his smoke break, doesn’t even notice his presence until Ed’s right on him. He folds a hand over the man's mouth and pushes the contents of a small syringe into his neck, then gracefully tosses his limp body into a nearby dumpster, all in the space of fifteen seconds. 

Humming, he pulls the chauffeur’s cad lower across his forehead, makes his way back to the car, and gets inside. Its interior is immaculate[,] and the leather seats well-cared for. He pulls the front seat back to make room for his legs. 

His hands clench on the wheel. The cabin smells faintly of cigar smoke. It's a stench that can't be covered up with anything, there's always a faint undertone. He bites his lip and inhales deeply. 

The click of a door opening behind him makes him jump. It takes all of his self-control not to glance back and sabotage himself; he watches the mirror instead.

Oswald climbs into the back seat and pops open the button on his jacket. He wiggles his tie loose and settles back against the seat, pulling out his phone.

“To the penthouse. I’ve had a long day.”

He hasn’t once looked up from his phone or realized that anything is amiss. This is just too good. 

Giddy, Ed grunts in ascent and shifts the gear lever into drive. The car glides forward onto the streets. Ed drives, his eyes barely on the road ahead, constantly darting back to Oswald, still tapping away at the screen at regular intervals. Finally, Oswald pauses and glances out the window, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“This isn’t the right tu—” he freezes when he locks eyes with Ed in the rear-view mirror. Despite the ache in his cheeks, his grin only widens. 

“Gotcha. Again.”

Oswald lunges for the door, tugging at the handle to no avail. 

“Nuh-uh,” Ed tuts at him, “I’ve engaged the child safety lock. You’re not getting out of this one.” 

After one last futile pull, Oswald grunts and settles back against the seat, arms crossed over his chest in a petulant sulk. Satisfied, Ed turns his gaze back to the road and takes them farther away from the city centre. As he turns onto Bayside Drive and picks up speed, the silence from the back seat begins to bother him. Worry gnaws at the back of his mind. 

He looks back at Oswald in the mirror; he doesn’t seem to have moved an inch, still staring sullenly into the middle distance. He’d expected Oswald to grouse and fight, or at least to throw a few choice words Ed’s way. This silence is unnerving. He feels compelled to break it.

“I bet you’re dying to know how I managed to take out your chauffeur.” His tone is smug, just begging for an altercation.

Finally, Oswald looks up and his reflection makes eye contact.

“If you’re taking me to the pier right now I’m going to shoot you. No nerf darts.” 

The solemnity in his voice catches Ed by surprise, jabbing at a wound he’d thought had closed up years ago. He swallows back the pain and dramatically rolls his eyes.

“Please, you think I’m that tapped for original ideas?” he adjusts the mirror and presses down on the accelerator, “No, I’ve got something far better in store for you.”

Or at least he hopes so. He’d been planning this next strike from the moment they’d shaken hands at The White Napkin. The puzzle he’d designed to trap Oswald is one of his better creations, tailored precisely to Oswald’s character. He’d worked tirelessly to set up a myriad of (near-fatal) death traps for him to stumble into, and he knows—in his gut—this is the one.

Oswald snorts. 

“What, you’re gonna drop me in a puzzle box or something? Real clever. What’s your track record on those anyway? The Bat keeps getting out of them.” 

“Well maybe that’s because he’s near my intellectual equal. You, on the other hand…” 

“I'm _what_ , Edward?” Oswald hisses, “I had you on ice for five months. If I'm your lesser, that says more about you than it does about me.” 

Ed grits his teeth, his foot pushing down on the gas pedal. This is taking too long. 

“You're really going to dredge up something that happened _fifteen years_ ago? That's just sad,” he snaps, glancing in the mirror, “But at least you admit I'm right.” 

“Oh, your intellect was never in doubt, Ed,” Oswald leans in close, fuming, “But you're too damn insecure to even— _PIGEON_!” he furiously points to a small grey shape on the road. 

Ed swerves, tires screeching. His head is pounding like a drum, cold sweat wets his hair.

“You want to know the truth, Ed?”

“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me,” his foot pushes harder on the gas pedal, “Why don’t you tell me exactly what—”

The blare of a siren cuts him off. Both men glance back simultaneously.

“Great job, genius. Now you’ve got the cops on our tail,” Oswald snorts and leans forward, face inches from the glass divider between the seats. “Bet they’ll give just anyone a driver’s license out in the boonies. What do you have to do? Drive ten yards without hitting a cow?"

Ed abruptly pulls to the side of the road, hitting the brakes with enough force that Oswald’s face hits the barrier with a satisfying thunk. He shifts the car into park and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, back into position. Undoing his seatbelt, he twists to fish his wallet out of a trouser pocket and plucks out a driving license. 

“Registration’s in the glove box, I take it?” he calls to the back seat. Oswald doesn’t answer, just silently glares at him, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. It seems the only serious injury was his pride. Indeed, it's the first document in the pile.

A knock on the window draws Ed’s attention back to the situation at hand and he rolls it down, a jovial smile plastered to his face.

“Good afternoon, officer.”

The burly, dour-looking man in uniform does not return his enthusiasm.

“License and registration.”

“Why, certainly!” Ed’s cheerful demeanour never falters.

He extends a hand out the window with the documents. A hand clamps around his wrist and the other reaches into the car, grabbing him by the back of his collar. The next thing Ed knows he’s been pulled through the window and thrown onto the road. Pain blooms in his shoulder and hip where he’d impacted with the ground. Instinctively, he reaches for his knife, but before he can get a hand to his pocket the policeman’s hauled him up and pushed him onto the hood of the car, twisting his arms behind his back. 

“Careful there, officer,” Oswald says, “You don’t want to damage this stolen vehicle.” 

“Sorry, Mr Cobblepot.”

Ed twists his neck to catch a glimpse of Oswald, standing calmly next to the car, a lit cigarette in hand. Oswald exhales a plume of smoke and winks. Cold fury washes over him. He knows what Oswald wants him to say, but at this moment he’d die for real before he’d give him the satisfaction. Ed jerks away, but the arms only press down harder. 

“Maybe you should search him, officer. Make sure…” Oswald squints at the driver's license he’s picked up off the ground, “... Mr Wynne here doesn’t have a weapon on him.”

Ed glares. Oswald must know full well he's armed to the teeth, and all of it illegal, given that he's a former Arkham patient. 

“Oswald, we don’t need to do this,” he begins, a little nervously, feeling hands patting him down. “Maybe we could just…”

A hand draws close to his waist and he instinctively jerks away. Oswald makes a strangled noise and points at him accusingly. 

“Officer, he’s being aggressive! He’s resisting arrest!”

One hand leaves his forearms and he hears the clink of metal from behind him. They’re going to arrest him. He’s going back to Arkham. He swallows his pride.

“Okay, okay! I give up! Take your point!”

He looks pleadingly at Oswald, only to find him staring right back, wide eyed—any trace of amusement gone from his features like someone had flipped a switch. Ed exhales, cheek flattening against the hood of the car. Of _course_ Oswald wouldn't make them take him back to Arkham. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the cold sting of metal against his temple. He needs to focus. This is all part of the show.

Somewhere above him, Oswald clears his throat. 

“You know, on second thought, I’ve decided not to press charges. That’ll be all—thank you, officer.”

The pressure on his back is gone and Ed pulls himself upright, smoothing down his jacket. He takes what he hopes is a discreetly deep breath and faces the policeman with a small smile. 

The man, visibly confused, tips his hat. 

“You have a nice day, and make sure to keep an eye on your registration. It’ll be expiring soon.” 

“Thank you, I’ll be sure to do that.”

Ed waits for the police car to round the bend before turning back on Oswald. They're in the middle of the street, for all to see, but he doesn't care. 

“I thought we said no goons!” he snarls, crossing the distance between them in a few angry steps. His chest still hurts from the panic. 

Oswald lets out an amused huff. “Commissioner Gordon would be appalled to hear you calling his fine men ‘my goons’.”

“Don't give me that—you cheated! Again!” 

The smile disappears from Oswald's face. 

“If you're going to accuse me of cheating every time I outsmart you—,” he clicks his tongue in annoyance, “It's not my fault the GCPD practically falls into my lap every time there's a crime spike in Gotham. A crime spike, might I add, that you contribute to.” 

Ed grinds his teeth. “You know what? Fine.”

He throws the front door open and snatches his pistol out from under the front seat, pointing it at Oswald.

“Bang! There. I win!”

Oswald only stares at him, mouth half open in shock. Then, he rolls his shoulder back and snorts a laugh, wiping at the underside of his nose. Ed clenches his jaw to contain the slight quirk of his own mouth. 

“Alright, fine,” Oswald placates, shaking his head, “You get your point. Looks like we’re back to 0-1.” 

Ed lowers the gun and watches, dumbfounded, as Oswald passes him and gets back in the car. 

“Wait,” he says half-heartedly, realising what's about to happen, but Oswald's already driving away. 

He sighs and tucks the gun in the back of his trousers, watching the car as it peels off into the distance. He'll walk. 

*

Oswald returns to the Lounge the following morning to find Jim Gordon pacing outside the door. 

“You,” he gestures to the bouncer over Jim’s head as he climbs out of the car, “I assume that you’ve already told Commissioner Gordon that I’m not taking appointments this morning.”

“I insisted I’d wait,” Jim looks directly at him, “You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

Oswald looks him over. Time had not been particularly kind to the man. The bags under his eyes and sunken, pale cheeks are a tell-tale sign of chronic sleep deprivation; deep frown lines that not even the scruffy facial hair can hide have appeared on either side of his mouth. 

Oswald is delighted. 

As satisfying as it would be to turn him away at the door (and heaven knows he would jump on any opportunity to fuck Jim Gordon over after what he’d done to him), Jim’s obvious discomfort shows that he’s clearly here against his will, and far be it from Oswald to deny him yet more of _that_. 

“Well, come on then.” He enters through the door held open by the bouncer and doesn’t look back.

His office is located on the second floor, tucked away at the end of the corridor and hidden behind a layer of security. Oswald steps through the door and slides into his chair. He waits for the audible click of the door closing behind Jim before swivelling around to face him.

“I hope you don’t mind if I smoke.” 

He knows Jim does. 

He pulls the ashtray from a desk drawer and tips a cigarette from the packet into his hand, then pauses.

“Oh, how rude of me.” He extends the pack towards Jim invitingly. 

“You know I quit.”

“Did you? What a shame,” he shifts back in his seat and lights the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke across the desk. Jim closes his eyes. “What can I do for you, Commissioner?”

Jim shifts uncomfortably in his chair. 

“We believe your life is being threatened. We are obligated to offer you police protection.”

Well, that is news, at least. “Threatened? By whom?” 

Jim looks pained. “Edward Nygma.”

Oswald chuckles. They stew in the silence for a moment; then he pulls in a breath and shifts in his chair, resting his elbow on the armrest.

“That’s it? Little odd that the head honcho himself is coming here to tell me this. Surely, you have underlings to run your errands for you. Or have you lost their ear, too?”

“People seem to think you’d be more willing to listen to me. Now, for your own good, let us put you under police protection.”

Oswald bursts out laughing.

“Yeah,” Jim sits back in his chair, “Get it all out.” 

Still cackling, he takes a long drag. “You think _Ed_ is any threat to me?”

Jim eyes him carefully.

“So you know he's after you?” 

He chuckles, quieter now, and taps more ash off his cigarette. 

“You let me worry about Edward Nygma.”

“What did you do this time?”

Oswald cocks an eyebrow. “You really care?”

Jim sighs. “You're right, I don't.” He moves to get up, hands closing on the armrests, but hesitates. “Humour me, though.” 

“Good effort, but what's between Ed and me…” he glances at his nails, “Stays between Ed and me.” 

Jim dips his head in concession. “That's how it's always been.”

He does glance up at that, put on his guard, but Jim is getting up again, not stopping this time. Oswald watches him unfold; he wonders, secretly, if he's aged as well. He's put on weight, that's for sure, but he would like to think he hasn't lost his… spark, the way Jim did. 

Ed, for one, most certainly hasn't. 

*

He’s biting his nails again.

Ed jerks the errant hand away from his face and onto the desk in front of him. It’s a terrible habit, one he’s tried to eradicate since his school days, but the old patterns resurface in times of stress. As he continues to scribble out plans, his left thumb can’t help but trace the ragged edge of a fingernail. 

The second time he catches his hand creeping up towards his mouth he slams both of them on the desk in frustration and shoves himself to his feet. His plans to set a trap for Oswald are getting nowhere. The undercurrent of anxiety urges him to pick at his cuticles and he briefly laments not picking up smoking. Best leave that to Oswald: he’d smoke himself into an early grave long before Ed could successfully find a way to kill him, at the rate Ed’s scheming is going. 

He groans and fishes his leftover pad thai from the fridge, bringing it over to his workspace. For the next half hour, he absently shovels the noodles into his mouth with disposable wooden chopsticks, his eyes glued to his laptop. 

Maybe he’s been staring at the screen for too long. Squinting at the small blueprints has left him faintly nauseous. Ed shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. If anything, the nausea gets worse. Frustrated, he stands up and migrates to a window. Best to look off into the distance until it subsides. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and he swipes at it with a sleeve. His stomach lurches again and he grabs onto the windowsill for support. 

Forget the plan: He turns and makes a break for the bathroom and his knees collide with the tile floor just in time to heave his guts into the toilet. For an interminable amount of time all he can do is vomit until his hands are shaking and his oesophagus burns. 

The fluorescent light in the dingy bathroom stings his eyes and he squeezes them shut and presses his forehead to the cool porcelain, begging the pounding in his head to cease. The nausea churns low in his gut. He realizes how badly he’s sweating when the cold air strikes the back of his neck, sending a shiver through his already shaking body. Something is very wrong. 

Another wave of nausea wracks his body and he’s sick again. Through the haze he’s faintly aware of his phone vibrating in his pocket. Whoever it is can leave a message. When nothing remains but bile, he slumps onto the floor, face against the tiles. His phone buzzes again and he groans and reluctantly pulls it from his pocket. He squints at the screen, struggling to make sense of the wavy letters. When he finally deciphers it, the pained confusion melts into cold fury.

**_Oswald:_ **

**_»_** _Enjoying your takeout?_ ** _«_**

That _fucker_.

He swallows painfully, throat dry and burning with bile, and hits the call button. Oswald picks up instantly and the smugness in his greeting makes Ed want to rip that smile clean off his face. 

“What the _fuck_ did you do to me?!” His voice comes out a rasp, far weaker than he’d have wanted. His body feels like lead and only rage and panic are keeping him upright.

“Oh, Ed. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Oswald tuts into the phone, “I’ve poisoned you, clearly. But don’t fret—I have the antidote, and you can have it too if you just say those magic words. You know the ones.” 

His stomach twists, this time with panic, and Ed struggles with all his might not to be sick again. He can’t believe Oswald would do this. It’s a new low for him.

 **“** If I were you, I wouldn’t take too long to decide,” Oswald’s voice cuts through the nausea. 

He digs his fingers into the toilet seat, knuckles white from strain. 

“I surrender.” 

“Glad to hear it. I’ll be over shortly.” 

The line goes dead with a click and he heaves his guts into the toilet. 

*

Not a half hour after he hangs up the phone, Oswald is standing before Ed’s apartment door. Getting into the building was easy enough, but as he waits in the hallway, buzzing for the third time, he begins to wonder if he’s going to need to break in. Before he can reach for his lockpick set, however, the door swings open.

Ed looks dreadful. He’s propped up against the doorframe, eyes half-lidded and bloodshot. His jacket and tie, normally impeccable, have long been abandoned, and his shirt is open at the collar, revealing a sheen of sweat coating his skin. A twinge of guilt claws at Oswald’s insides. He tamps it down and pushes past Ed into the apartment. 

He makes a beeline for the coffee table and sets his bag down, rifling through it. He’s faintly aware of Ed shambling after him, holding onto the couch for dear life. 

“... Antidote?” he croaks out.

Oswald hands him a pill, sealed in a blister pack. Ed holds it away from his face, squinting.

“This is… Dramamine.”

“I’m hoping it’ll help.”

Ed drops onto the sofa and fumbles the blister pack open, dumping the pills into his hand.

“What did you dose me with?” he groans.

Oswald shakes his head. “Take your medicine.” He pulls a sports drink from the bag and gives it to him, then watches as he washes the pill down with it. 

“An emetic,” he explains after a moment, limping over to sit down on the other side of the coffee table, “Nothing more.” 

He takes his jacket off and throws it over the backrest, leaving his vest on, then begins to roll up his sleeves. 

Ed hangs his head, sweat gleaming in his drenched hair.

“I hate you,” he mutters weakly, his voice flat, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” 

“Don't be such a sore loser,” Oswald shuffles forward and taps the bottom of the bottle in Ed's hand, “Drink.” 

He obediently drinks a few sips, then pulls a face and puts it down, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Not too much,” Oswald adds, but it comes out more like reassurance than a scolding.

Ed's face is pale and his eyes bloodshot. His mouth is a fierce red from the bottle neck. He wipes the sweat from over his lip and glares at him, eyes sharpening. 

“There’s no way you could’ve slipped that into my food.”

“I didn’t—I coated your chopsticks. You always get Thai on Tuesdays.”

“Why didn’t I taste it?”

Oswald exhales sharply, smirking. “Ivy’s special blend.”

“I hate you,” Ed says again, “I...” 

“Yes, I know,” he cuts him off, then, softer, “Yes.”

Ed drinks from the bottle again, then sinks forward, hand holding up his head like it's impossibly heavy. 

“You should sleep it off,” Oswald gets up, leaning on the armrest, “Come on. To bed.”

He picks Ed off the sofa by the elbow, noticing that he won't lean on him, even though he encourages it; he sways with his hand against a wall, all the way to his bedroom. It's dim, messy, there are loose sheets of paper scattered across all available horizontal surfaces. A small collection of mugs sit on the nightstand, stained with coffee. He's been hard at work. 

There's a blanket buried underneath a pile of laundry at the foot of the bed, so he picks it up and unfolds it. 

“Don't you dare look at my desk,” Ed says as he's lowering himself onto the covers. He tries to stay propped up on his elbow, but collapses onto his back.

“I won't,” Oswald promises with a sigh, draping the blanket over him. His leg is beginning to ache from all the unassisted walking, so his next stop is most likely the sofa, anyway. 

This doesn't seem right. It's not much of a war, or even a fight, if you have to patch up your opponent's wounds at the end of it. Not that their war is even over; far from it. Oswald smiles, trying to imagine how Ed will get back at him for this once he's better. 

As he's straightening up, Ed's hand darts forward and grabs his wrist. His eyes are almost fully closed, only a glimmer visible under his lashes. 

“Don't go anywhere.” 

“I'm only going to get you a bowl.” 

“Better not… near my desk,” he repeats, head rolling back as his grip slackens. 

Oswald fetches him the bowl, along with a bottle of water, and the remainder of the sports drink. His leg is howling by the time he gets back, so he sits at the foot of the bed, by Ed's feet, and leans on his thighs. 

He shouldn't have done this. 

There are a number of things he wants to do, but they're all too kind for him, too tender. He's not _allowed_ to do them anymore; he's not even allowed to make Ed a cup of tea without reminding them both of a kind of domesticity that is lost to them, unsalvageable. 

It's not in either of their natures to take care of each other now, and it's difficult to believe it ever was. Oswald wonders what Ignatius would think of him, if he could've seen him then—if he could see him now. He rubs his face with his hand and combs back his hair with his fingers.

Keeping their game a secret had been a good idea, mostly because the whole thing got started for personal amusement, but he's particularly grateful for the secrecy now. 

He gets up and looks at Ed again, fast asleep with his face turned sideways into the pillow. His neck is definitely going to hurt. 

It's been a while since he's seen Ed sleeping, too. Not that he was ever in the habit of watching him. One particular time comes to mind when Ed dozed off against the limousine door, a few days after Oswald had won the mayor's office, while they were on their way home. A freshly promoted chief of staff. Feels like centuries ago, now. 

Oswald gets up and leaves the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let us know what you think :)


	3. III

The Lounge is unusually busy for a Tuesday evening and Oswald has barely had a moment to himself. Whilst far from empty on a weekday, petulant man-child Bruce Wayne had chosen tonight to throw a birthday party with five dozen of his friends, who seem to have made a sport out of making the most outlandish requests possible from Oswald’s staff. Not that he or his employees would complain: a Wayne party meant serious money for everyone involved. 

Oswald is currently waiting on an attendant, sent out to the nearest home improvement store in the name of retrieving a flamingo lawn ornament to “pound Jägerbombs with Brucie”. The man should have been back by now. 

Oswald is painfully aware of the fact he'll be out in public. Ed would be hard pressed to get at him within the Lounge, the very centre of Oswald’s powerbase. The extra security he’d hired and precautions he’d taken would see to that. Moreover, he has a reputation to maintain and refused to grant Ed the delusion that he could have that much power over Oswald’s life. Not anymore. 

A collective cheer comes from Wayne’s table and he turns in time to see them down another round of shots. The seat next to the birthday boy is conspicuously empty, still awaiting its plastic occupant. The attendant should have been back by now…

His phone buzzes. 

**_???:_ **

**_»_ ** _Bet your guests are going to have a blast tonight._ **_«_ **

Anxiety twists in his gut as he fumbles the phone back into his pocket. Something is off—Ed is planning something. Where is his attendant? 

Again, a buzz. 

**_???:_ **

**_»_ ** _What better way to end an evening than with a bang?_ **_«_ **

Frustrated, he pockets it and abruptly turns, only to collide with a blonde woman a good head taller than him. Before he can admonish her, her hand grips his forearm.

“Mr Cobblepot, I’m with the GCPD. There’s been a bomb threat called in. We’re going to need to evacuate the Lounge.” 

The rebuke dies on his lips when her words finally click. A bomb. Surely Ed wouldn’t do something as stupid as try to blow up the Lounge. Would he? Oswald thinks back to the last night he’d seen him; face white as a sheet mumbling “I hate you” over and over again. Oswald had humiliated him, and a disgraced Ed was precisely when he was at his most dangerous. He’s hit with a wave of dread. Then panic.

“Get ready to clear the Lounge,” he tells the police officer, before walking past her to the center of the room. Setting his cane down on the centrepiece’s pedestal and bracing his arms against it, he hoists himself up onto the platform with far greater effort than he’d care to admit. The move leaves him breathless for a few seconds as he holds onto the ice sculpture for support. He takes a deep breath.

“Listen here! Everybody quiet!” He bangs the cane against the platform and the music goes out. A hush spreads through the Lounge, all eyes on him. “I’m going to need everybody to exit the Lounge.” When nobody moves to get up, he raises his voice. “I said get out! Party’s over!” 

With this, the merry atmosphere in the Lounge is extinguished, like a flame doused with a bucket of water. Grumbling, the guests file out, Bruce Wayne’s friends loudest and most rancorous of all. 

The officer is back, offering out an arm for him to get down. He ignores it and jumps from the platform, his bad leg spasming in protest. 

“Mr Cobblepot, sir, I strongly recommend that you come with us and be put under police protection.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Sir, please, I insist. It’s for your own safety.”

Well, at the very least, Ed couldn't possibly anticipate him going along with the police. Reluctantly, Oswald allows himself to be led outside. The outside air is unfamiliarly warm compared to the club’s interior. He instinctively reaches for a cigarette when he feels his phone vibrate. 

**_???:_ **

**_»_ ** _Marvellous night for some fireworks, isn’t it?_ **_«_ **

Oswald stops in his tracks. If Ed were to try to snipe at him again, the street in front of the Lounge would be an easy target. He scans the windows and rooftops, cursing the darkness and his poor vision. He’s a sitting duck.

He shoves past the officer and nearly throws himself into the back of the waiting car. As he smooths down his jacket in an attempt to right himself, his phone vibrates yet again.

Before he can even move to look at it, movement from the front seat catches his attention: the driver sits in silhouette, the back of his head hidden by a hat. One gloved hand spreads out over the headrest of the passenger’s seat. So _this_ was Ed’s plan then. 

Oh _fuck_ _no,_ this is not happening again. He barely got out of it last time. 

Adrenaline takes over and he dives from the car and starts running. He makes it only a handful of yards before colliding headfirst with something solid and falling onto the sidewalk. Arms flailing, he hits the pavement, electric pain shooting up through his tailbone as he lands. Sweaty and breathless, he pulls himself up to a sitting position to find himself staring across the pavement at an oversized plastic flamingo and a terrified-looking attendant. 

He can feel people's eyes on him, passers-by slowing to look or speeding up to avoid him, all the while pretending not to look. And what a sight— He's short of breath, a sharp pain blooming under his ribs, the ache in his leg getting worse, as the adrenaline runs its course. He can’t seem to heave himself to his feet, his arms like jelly. Breathlessly, he takes out his phone, dragging a shaking thumb over the screen and past the latest ominous text, then clicks on Ed's row of question marks, ready to beg, or threaten, or whatever it takes. Not the Lounge. 

He brings the phone to his ear and listens to it ring, but there is no answer; he's being blatantly ignored. He sends the text. _You win._

Tired out by his panic, but still nervous, he pulls himself to his feet and stumbles back down the street. A small crowd has gathered by the entrance to the Lounge, kept back by street cops in uniform.

Cops are sweeping the goddamn Iceberg Lounge. He's going to kill him.

It takes a total of two hours, which Oswald spends sitting on the back of a police van. Another hour for them to wrap up and conclude there's no bomb, writing it off as a prank call; by the end of it, Oswald is completely wrung out. As if to spite him, even his leg begins to pulse with pain from his earlier fall. 

The GCPD pack their gear, get back into their cars, and drive off. Oswald's phone buzzes; the message is short enough to display on the locked screen.

**_???:_ **

**_»_ ** _;)_ **_«_ **

He swears under his breath. 

*

All good plans are built in layers. Ed’s toes curl in his shoes and he notices he's leaned forward in the chair to better study the screen. 

Despite spending a great deal of nights in his city apartment, Oswald still considers the Van Dahl mansion his true home, and it's something Ed knew, from the beginning, he could exploit. All it took was the few weeks' wait as he went through with the other, less capricious attempts, and sure enough, a weekend came along too pretty for Oswald to resist spending it at his out-of-city estate. 

Edward took the opportunity to—tamper. The bomb threat at the Lounge had given him the last couple of hours he'd needed to properly set up. 

He hears a noise to his left. The woman tied up with her husband and two kids is saying something behind the duct tape over her mouth, her eyes wide and pleading. The others are still napping.

“Hey,” Ed holds up a finger, “Shh.”

The apartment directly under Oswald's was, obviously, occupied. While this doesn't exactly warrant murdering an entire family, he'd had to do something with them.

The woman looks at the children, then tries to glance back at her spouse; when she can't, she makes a whimpering noise and her eyes well up with tears. Her chest rises and falls quickly.

“Hey,” Ed repeats until she's looking at him again, “They're fine. I'll be gone before you know it. Just forget I was here, and you'll never see me again.” 

She makes a sound he doesn't know how to interpret. She wasn't supposed to be awake for this, of course; but she is a little on the heavier side, and he probably should've hit her with a bigger dose. 

She weeps again, tries a wriggle. 

“Stop that,” he points, “You make another noise, I'll shoot you. No riddle. I'm busy.” 

He's not in costume, but it clearly tips her off, because she goes still. 

Ed returns his attention to the screen of his laptop and his thumb hovers over the button to start the timer. Oswald is in his office, doing something on his phone. Can't set it unless he's in a straight line from the front door; Ed's willing to take a risk here, but not that risk. 

He licks his lips in anticipation. He has him. Ed has him, and he doesn't even know it. The high is—it's almost painfully exciting. 

His enthusiasm doesn't die down through almost an hour of watching Oswald idle. He needs him to get hungry; won't take long, Oswald gets snacky and Ed knows it without having to watch him through multiple cameras. 

Finally, the figure stands up from the desk and pads over to the kitchen. He opens a cabinet and reaches forward on the balls of his feet to pull an ornate box of macaroons from the top shelf. Daintily, he plucks one from the box and pops it into his mouth.

Showtime. 

Ed punches in the number and suppresses a laugh at Oswald’s panic-stricken face, as he hastily shoves the second macaroon into his mouth to free up a hand. 

“What do you want?” Oswald says into the phone, disgruntled, the crispness of the consonants muffled by the confection between his teeth. 

**“** What takes years to develop, minutes to fix, is small enough to fit a pin yet strong enough to break a man?” he pauses. “How are those macaroons?” 

The half-eaten macaroon falls off of Oswald’s tongue and onto the floor. He furiously scrapes its remnants off of his tongue. 

“Now, now, don’t drop a perfectly good macaroon! What kind of psychopath would poison someone else’s food?”

“How the fuck—” the image on the screen freezes, then turns a slow, suspicious circle. 

Ed straightens, a magician about to present the big reveal. 

“I ha—”

“You hacked my security cameras,” Oswald interrupts, taking the wind out of his sails.

“Well aren’t you clever. Here’s another riddle for you then,” he presses the timer, “What’s that mysterious ticking noise?” 

Oswald fetches a chair and approaches the camera, gaze intently focused on something behind it. His face fills the screen and a second later, the image cuts to black. 

Ed flips over to the next channel to see Oswald coming closer, dragging the chair behind him like an improvised weapon. He chuckles to himself, but soon realises that at this rate, he'll lose eyes on him relatively quickly. 

“Turning off the cameras won't do you much good,” Ed holds the phone to his mouth and grins, “There's only one switch that matters right now, and it's already been flipped. I can crawl, I can fly, and you’re running out of me.”

The screen freezes on Oswald's frowning face, then goes black. Growing annoyed, Ed checks the next camera.

“Are you listening to me?” he asks, “I've rigged your apartment. Admit I've won.” 

Oswald scowls, then turns away from the camera. Slowly, his shoulders start to shake. Is he—is he _laughing?_

“Nice try, Ed. There’s no bomb.”

“ _What?_ ” 

“I said it was a valiant attempt, but there is no bomb.” He drags the chair over to the other end of the room, turning off another one of his feeds before Ed can even switch to it. 

This is not going according to plan. This is all wrong. He catches himself gnawing on an overgrown cuticle and jerks his hand away. “Just admit I bested you!”

“I’m calling your bluff. I know your tricks. You’re not going to fool me again.”

Ed is down to the last camera. 

“Jesus Christ, Oswald. I know reasoning might not be your strong suit but what part of ‘ _there’s a bomb in your apartment'_ is not getting through to you?!”

“Clearly you wouldn’t be stupid enough to actually blow up my flat just to win this. You’re trying to lure me out into the open again, and it’s not going to work. And frankly, I’m tired of your overplayed schemes.” Oswald glares at the camera, before his arm reaches past it and the final screen goes dark. “Good night, Ed. Better luck next time.” 

His phone beeps as the call disconnects. He stares at it for a moment before the panic sets in and he dials again. The call goes to voicemail after one ring. The same thing happens the second time.

Fuck.

Ed watches the numbers tick down in sync with his own heartbeat thudding in his ears; then it sets off at a new, frantic pace when he realises just what he has done. He leaps out of the chair and circles his set-up, nearly tripping on the coils of cables across the floor; his hip catches on the side of the table, knocking a cup to the ground, but he doesn't look back to watch it fall. 

He bursts out of the apartment, leaving the tied-up family with all his equipment, and scrambles up the stairs, impossibly angry with himself for not managing to hide closer - the distance to the penthouse is suddenly immeasurable, stretching further with every clumsy step. His pulse is almost painful. 

The door. He grabs the keys from his pocket and unlocks it, counting down along with the timer in his thoughts. He's not sure if he has it right.

He throws the door open and runs inside, and in that moment, the first charge goes off. The shockwave reverberates through the floor. Over the sound of shattering windows, he hears a shout, and realises Oswald is right there—in the living room—eyes wide and hands raised in confusion, or maybe just to keep his balance. Ed runs up to him as the second explosion goes off, much closer, taking a length of drywall with it. 

It almost knocks him off his feet. He sees it, too; a burst of orange, debris flying. The building rumbles deep within its structure. He manages to cross the rest of the distance and grab Oswald's wrist. 

That seems to wake him up. 

“What did you do?!” he shouts, eyes somehow going wider, but the third charge blows just beside them and there is no more time; the heat hits them like a very physical thing, and Ed's running for the door, hauling Oswald with him. 

They rush out into the small hall and tumble down the stairs when the fourth and largest charge sends fire spewing from the doorway. Ed ducks and rolls both himself and Oswald down, bruising every goddamn disc in his spine until they topple onto the landing.

The ringing in his ears cuts through the silence. His face burns like he stuck his head in the oven and there's a weight on top of him, crushing him to the floor. 

He forces his eyes to open so he can check on Oswald, and quickly identifies him as the weight pressing down on his torso. He's sitting up, hands splayed on Ed's chest for balance, and says something he doesn't quite hear over the ringing. 

“Huh?”

“You…”

Oswald's voice reaches him over the faint crackling of flames and breakage. Smoke is gathering in great black billows under what remains of the ceiling, around Oswald's soot-darkened face; his eyes are bluer than he's ever seen them, catching every flicker of the flames in their reflection. 

His hands are fisted in the front of Ed’s boiler suit, but he lets go now—then brings them back down, knocking the air from his lungs. 

“Crazy bastard!” he screams, “You could have killed us both!”

Ed tips his head back against the floor. “I win.”

“What?” Oswald seethes, “No! No, you didn’t win!” In a frantic rush, he reaches into his jacket and produces a knife, then presses it against Ed’s exposed neck. “There! I win!” 

Ed’s shoulders drop. “This doesn’t fucking count, I just saved your life!” 

Oswald wheezes. 

“See this?” he leans in close and waves the blade about with a wild gleam in his eye, then presses down again. A spike of heat stings Ed’s skin where it draws blood. “This is my knife, on your throat! I win! I killed you!”

Oswald's shouts echo through the carnage. He breathes in, harsh and huffy, then - unexpectedly - chokes on a giggle. He looks down, at Ed’s neck, then back up.

Ed clears his throat. “You have to admit; it was a good one.”

Oswald nods, then bursts out in hysterics, knife clattering to the ground. He slaps his thigh.

“Oh,” Ed smiles, then aims to say something clever, but finds himself laughing too. It's not an exceedingly pretty laugh, it's loud and vaguely maniacal, but the shock is starting to kick in. 

He reaches up, but lets his hand fall before it even comes close to touching Oswald's side. The laughter is dying out, slowly, and the sinking weight on his middle is becoming less and less unwelcome. He blinks. 

Oswald places his hands just below Ed's collar, fingers curling into the fabric before smoothing it out again. Ed watches his face; his eyes; the smile is still there, faint but lingering, and it's an expression he hasn't seen in years. 

He's thought about it before - why there have always been strangers and Oswald, enemies and Oswald, _friends_ and Oswald - but now he thinks about it again, and something shifts in his chest under the pressure. Like something giving way, a large rock finally getting carried away by the current.

Despite the concrete of the landing, he feels warm. Oswald’s body bearing down on him isn’t unpleasant; comforting, rather, like waves washing over him while he floats just under the surface. Everything is muted, muffled, the sound of that laugh imprinted on his memory like an afterimage.

He feels impossibly light.

*****

Ed's next attempt is predictable. 

Oswald counts it as a win before Ed even reaches his office; his counter strike is perfect, and his win here will mark the second kill of the streak, which isn't of course satisfactory (nothing short of a three-nil is satisfactory; he will win this, no matter the cost) but it's definitely better than one.

He waits eagerly in his safe room, pretending to busy himself with something of the absent audience of his fireplace mirror, but his thoughts run scattered. He has learned not to let down his guard even when Ed is in his domain; even in the heart of the Iceberg, he's only as safe as he is paranoid. 

He won't lose. Not so soon after the blown-up apartment fiasco. Of the two of them, it is painfully obvious who truly came closer to murdering the other, and to lose would be a jab at his pride he doesn't feel like suffering. 

He runs a hand over his hair and adjusts his cufflinks. Any minute now. 

He hears footsteps down the corridor, more than one pair, and smiles to himself in dark satisfaction. Again. He's always revelled in outwitting Ed, but this is beginning to feel like plain bullying. 

The doors open and he turns to face the music; two men are holding Ed by the shoulders, one keeping a gun trained on his head. Oswald gestures for him to ease up.

“Caught him by the second entrance to your office, sir,” he reports briskly, holstering the weapon, “Just like you said.”

Oswald rifles through some possible quips, smiling to himself as he does so. He has all the time in the world, now; Ed's watching him with cold anger burning in his eyes, and though the stakes are not exactly what they could be, it's good to know he can piss him off this bad with nothing but a game. A game he's winning.

“Sir,” the same man steps forward. He's waited too long, in his delight. “What should we do with him?”

“Get off me,” Ed wrestles one shoulder loose, then the other, and steps forward. 

Oswald allows it, keeping his men at bay with a raised hand. “Getting nervous?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

Ed towers over him, lids low over his eyes. He takes another step. A small smile hides in the corner of his mouth. 

“How did you figure it out?”

“I could sell you some elaborate tale of how I purposely left a hole in my security, then made it so it aligned with when I'd be alone in my office,” he meets Ed halfway, looking up to keep their eyes locked, “But the truth is, Edward, I had a look through your plans when you were passed out sick. You really need to stop scrawling your thought process all over your desk. I simply installed an additional alarm.” 

“I would've had you,” Ed says, voice soft. He blinks calmly, fondly, making something shift and twist in Oswald's stomach. 

“Would've. Didn't.” He smiles, falsely apologetic. “Two-love, Edward.” 

He's close enough to feel Ed's breath on his cheek, and he is suddenly and vividly aware of how close together they are standing. Ed tilts his head to the side and reaches up to his lapel.

“You'll do anything to win, won't you, Oswald?” he whispers. 

Something devilish glistens in his eyes. In a sharp, rapid movement, he curls his hand over the back of Oswald's neck and kisses him.

Oswald stumbles; he feels a hand sprawling over his back, catching him before the desk does. His mind goes blank and—this close, all he can bear to feel is the soft mouth on his own, the light pressure of Ed's glasses against his cheek, and the smell of cologne. He doesn't move. He feels frozen, afraid, and all he can do is tip his head back and allow more. And more. He's wanted this for over a decade. He can't think about anything else—until he feels a cold sting against his throat.

Ed pulls away; Oswald's eyes flutter open and he flinches, almost cutting his own windpipe on the knife Ed lifted from his jacket pocket. 

And he has the audacity to lick his lips and grin. 

Behind him, Oswald can clearly see his own men, all in varying states of shock and discomfort. Hot shame rushes to his face; the game is forgotten. He grabs Ed's wrist in one hand, jerking the blade away, then reaches back and slaps him across the face. 

Ed doesn't move with it. His cheek goes red with what will surely be nasty bruising before Oswald has even lowered his hand. His glasses have slid down his nose, and now he exhales and adjusts them, then blinks a few times, like he can't quite focus. 

Oswald lifts his hot fingertips to his own mouth and lets the anger light up like a flare inside him. 

“Get out,” he says, and when Ed gives no indication of having heard him, shouts it. 

Edward winces, finally meeting his eyes.

“I—”

Oswald snaps his fingers at their silent audience and Ed quickly raises both hands, dropping the knife; when that makes them hesitate, he bolts for the door.

Silence fills the room. Oswald sits back on the desk and runs a shaking hand over his face, then does it again, pressing down on his watering eyes. 

“Boss, should we go after him?” he hears from somewhere far away. 

“Boss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, tell us your thoughts :)


	4. IV

For the next three nights, Ed doesn't sleep. 

He booby traps his base, which amounts to sealing himself inside. Not that he expects goons to be the ones coming in to exact Oswald's revenge; no, when he does come, it will be in person, flanked by his best men. On Ed's turf, he won't stand a chance. But it'll hurt. For far less life-threatening reasons. 

The traps work perfectly. He has old contacts get his shopping for him. It's not that he's afraid. 

He just doesn't feel like leaving his base. At all. Ed's made quite a place for himself in his warehouse, with a small elevated platform for his computers and a small bed; the lower area is where he tests and stores his inventions, with just a small path leading to the metal stairs.

If Oswald wants to confront him about what happened, he can come here.

He won't, though. Not for a while. 

As a young child, Ed took a private kind of pride in his ability to get out of the way. To _be_ out of the way, anticipating when his father's next outburst would be and expertly shielding himself from it. Sometimes, that meant not leaving his bedroom for three days straight; sometimes it meant not coming home. Sometimes that, too, failed—but the best thing to do was always to hide.

He doesn't want to think about it. 

When he does fall asleep, he wakes up to the faint hum of footsteps outside. Many footsteps. 

He checks the clock on his nightstand, a rickety thing assembled from books. He slept for thirteen hours straight. It passed like nothing, though he can feel the faint thrum of coiled energy in his muscles. He stretches his arms over his head, quick and effective, puts his glasses on, and walks barefoot across the floor to check the outdoor camera.

He balks. 

The street outside is all but flooded with police. He covers his mouth with his hand and runs to the computers; his backups are safe in the cloud, but his hands still tremble as he fries the hard drives one by one. He optimized the process to be as fast as possible without the risk of doing it by accident, but now it seems impossibly slow. 

He hears a crash further in; they must have knocked down the door. Rude. He closes his eyes and tries to think, but he's dehydrated, exhausted, and high on adrenaline. His other exits were barred to funnel Oswald’s men into one place for easy picking; he shouldn't have used proxies. His eyes go to the nearest gun—he has several around him, he could probably—no. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. He can get out of this, but only if he complies. 

He folds his hands behind his head just as police flood into the room and surround him, blinding him with flashlights. Fuck. They're quiet, someone shouts to stay where he is; he swallows, eyes still closed, and presses his face into his arm. 

Oswald? Oswald wouldn't—no, Oswald would come here personally. God, he isn't a savage. 

“You're under arrest,” a voice says, and Ed cracks one eye open to see Jim pointing a gun at him. Nothing ever changes. 

“For what?” he spits. “Miranda rights, Jimmy,” he reminds as Gordon circles him. 

Hands grab his wrists and twist them behind his back.

“Murder,” Jim says, voice flat, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.” 

“What?” Ed tries to look back at him, but he's being shoved forward, down the stairs, “Wait, murder?” 

He calculates how long it's actually been since he strung two thoughts together. Four... five days? God, but does it matter. There's been a mistake. He tries to breathe. 

His heart sinks, then sets off at a wild pace, but trying to writhe now is near impossible; three cops are holding him, he has no shoes, and someone has a hand on the back of his head. 

He thinks he might vomit. 

*

“This’ll go a lot easier for you if you talk to us.”

“Lawyer.” 

Ed all but spits the word. Frankly, he doesn’t know what Montoya expected. They’ve done this dance many times over the years; each arrest ending in a forced apology after Ed’s lawyer makes whatever charges they try to nail him for vanish into Gotham’s corrupt ether. 

She tries again.

“We’ve already contacted your lawyer. He says you’re no longer one of his clients. Conflict of interest.”

So Oswald has blacklisted him then. He’s not surprised. With a sigh, he leans forward in his seat, the cuffs securing his wrists to the table clinking as he moves.

“Law-yer,” he repeats, slow and enunciated. 

“Come on, Nygma. It’s a Friday night. You know no public defender is going to be willing to come down here before Monday. You could be stuck in that holding cell all weekend,” she moves closer, “I’ll let you in on a little secret: we’re about to bust the Street Demonz’ underground fighting ring, and take it from me; you _really_ don’t want to be in there when a bunch of angry brawlers land in that cell. I’ll betcha they’re just itching for a fight.”

Ed snorts. So this is the bad cop.

Montoya doesn’t seem to take the hint and instead slides into the seat across from him.

“So when did you and Oswald Cobblepot fall out?”

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, regarding her coldly.

“Come on, you must’ve had a fight.”

“We didn't,” he corrects her, despite himself.

Unbothered, she continues. “I understand you have history.” She glances down into the file in her hand and flips through the pages. “According to this, you put a bullet in his gut almost fifteen years ago. You were never charged.” 

“Fifteen—,” Ed exhales sharply, “A lot has happened since then.” 

“So, how would you describe your relationship right now?” 

“Good,” he grits. 

She cocks an eyebrow. 

“Good? People with a ‘good’ relationship don't threaten each other's lives. They don't send messages like,” She sorts through the stack of pages in her hands, “‘What better way to end an evening with a bang?’ half an hour before a bomb threat is called in at their friend's establishment.” 

“What can I say, I have a unique sense of humour. There is no correlation. And I thought the tip the GCPD received was anonymous.”   
  
Montoya studies him for a while. Then, she pulls in a breath. 

“How often did you see each other? Have you ever been to his apartment?” 

Ed isn't blind, he can see the pattern. His throat works.

“I've never been to his apartment. He only stays there when he's working late at the Lounge. We see each other every few weeks, more often recently.”

“Why's that?”

“We've set aside some time.”

“Right,” Montoya sighs, looking down at the file again, “We have CCTV footage of you near Cobblepot's apartment on the night it was blown up.”

“Near?”

“The cameras in the building had been turned off.”

He leans forward, picking up her gaze. “How unlucky.” 

Montoya sets the file down with a thump. 

“Dumb doesn’t suit you, Ed. Why won’t you talk to me? You really didn’t think that we’d be able to trace the explosion back to you? There's only one person in Gotham capable of blowing an apartment to smithereens with that kind of precision.”

He glares up at her. She raises her eyebrows. 

“Also, you've used the same accelerant four times in a row, now.” She sighs and leans forward on the table. “Why did you want Penguin dead so badly?”

“Wait,” he holds up a hand as far as the cuffs will allow it, “You think Oswald died in that explosion? You...” he cuts himself off, “Not that I admit that was me.” 

Montoya stands slowly and leans over him. 

“You blew up Penguin's apartment while he was inside. Forensics is still scraping him off the walls.” 

Any other day, Ed would argue, he really would, but not right now. He throws himself to his feet with enough force to send the chair crashing to the floor. The sudden motion has Montoya jumping back, a hand over her gun, despite the cuffs still binding Ed to the table.

“Oswald’s not dead, you dolt!” His voice sounds too shrill, desperate. Mentally, he resets, reigning it in to mere exasperation, “This is stupid. I get a phone call, don’t I?” 

But the damage had already been done. The door flings open and three officers rush into the interrogation room, restraining him by the shoulders. He’s uncuffed from the table and muscled out the door. He would've let them brusquely march him back to that dingy cell had he not caught the movement from the mezzanine: Jim Gordon stands, braced against the handrail, watching dourly. Ed catches his eye, silently pleading with him to intervene. Instead, Jim turns away.

“Jim! Jim, wait, come back! Oswald’s not dead. I can prove it!”

This is enough to stop the Commissioner’s retreat into his office. Ever the believer in fair play—some things never change. 

Jim motions the officers to stop and he comes down the stairs, walking right up to Ed. The details of Jim’s tired and unamused face come into stark relief.

“Somehow, I find it difficult to believe you.”

“Please, just let me make a phone call.” The desperation that comes through that please is no act.

With a sigh, Jim gives in and takes him to a phone, emanating whole bundles of wires, hooked up to various recording equipment. Wordlessly, he hands him the receiver. Hands shaking from residual adrenaline, Ed punches in Oswald’s private number, the tone echoing through an otherwise quiet room.

Oswald picks up on the fourth ring. 

“Who is this?”

Ed's heart jumps to his throat. 

“I speak without—”

“Go fuck yourself.” 

The dial tone rings in his ear. Jim leans in and pulls the receiver from his hands.

He turns to face Jim and gestures frantically to the receiver, his chest tight. Jim looks thoroughly unimpressed. 

“You have to realise I can't do anything with that,” he exhales and shakes his head.

“Come on,” Ed rolls his eyes, “You know what he sounds like. He's _alive_.”

“He's not answering the phone, and we can't find him,” Jim raises a hand, “It's the law, Ed. Better settle in.” 

He grabs Ed's shoulder and marches him back to the cell. The door clangs shut between them. 

*

After the awful drag of interrogation, they put him in one of the holding cells in the bullpen. He's never actually been inside of one until now—it should be a rite of passage of some kind, he's sure, but then gets offended at the notion. 

But at least he’s alone in the cell, no rowdy brawlers. Montoya had most likely been lying, start to finish. 

He remembers the first time he saw Oswald. It was in here. Maybe even this one, if memory serves, and it typically does. He'd only made the connection later, of course; he hadn't seen him, not really, dressed in a cheap rumpled suit, black eye, waiting for Maroni to come scrape him off the floor. 

They had been young. The times had been different. He slots his fingers together between his knees and leans forward, staring at nothing. 

He doesn't know what he'll do. Oswald can't stay fake-dead forever; he just needs to be patient. He certainly can't expect... 

Commotion draws his gaze to the doors. They've been flung open to make way for three men who couldn't more obviously be thugs, though no weapons are on display, obviously; Oswald walks in after them, dressed to the nines, hair glossy with product and eyelids darkened. Ignatius is by his side.

It’s a far cry from the haughty young man who waddled through that door almost two decades back, confirming all rumours of his death were greatly exaggerated, but the reaction is the same.

A hush falls over the room. Ed doesn't know how they find it in themselves to be awed at this point, but they are. Oswald takes it in, revels in it, but his eyes scan the room carefully, gliding over Ed's cell without seeing him. Ed bites his lip in childish frustration. What is he doing here?

More movement, at the top of the stairs; Jim descends to meet him in the bullpen, and they exchange a few quiet, snappy words. Ed's gaze drifts over to Oswald's thugs, but only Ignatius meets his eyes. 

It's one thing to play things close to the chest. He vividly remembers the last time he felt this stupid. 

While Oswald and Jim go upstairs, his security in tow, Ignatius slows and changes course to approach the holding cell. Ed stands to meet him; whatever he has to say, Ed will likely prefer to hear it whispered. 

His hands instinctively close around the bars.

“What is he doing here?” he hisses, jerking his chin in the direction Oswald and Jim went.

“What do you think?” Ignatius' mouth quivers like he's amused, “He's bailing you out.” 

He shifts his weight between his feet, tucking both hands in his pockets, and looks down with a smile.

“He's not going to let you have the satisfaction.”

“Of what?” Ed spits. 

“Of being the man who killed Oswald Cobblepot, of course,” Ignatius pouts at him, “I mean, he didn't exactly let you get away with it last time around.”

Ed inhales deeply. “I see he won't even do the gloating himself, these days. Or is there some point to this?”

Ignatius pauses at that. He watches Ed carefully, not quite studying him, but intensely aware. He's intelligent, Ed can tell, but—once again—inexperienced. 

“You won't get far, trying to be him.”

Ignatius licks his lips. “Why? He has everything.” 

It's Ed's turn to fall silent. Ignatius' smile grows, toothy and mocking. 

“You're a real class act, Nygma,” he says, voice low, “You really think the world revolves around you. Well, look here. You embarrassed my boss. Twice in the span of a week.” 

“You know what's embarrassing?” Ed leans in, “Watching you strut around like someone's sugar baby, thinking you know us. Thinking you know anything about this city.” 

“I'm not the one who was locked up for a decade,” Ignatius leans in, “In fact, I reckon I know this city better than you do. But,” he moves away again, “You're right. There are things I don't know.” 

He looks away pointedly, chewing his cheek. 

Ed scoffs. “Why would I tell you anything? Oswald just proved he's alive. I'm going to go free, and all of this will be written off as a misunderstanding. What do I have to gain?” 

Ignatius smiles again, wide enough to make his eyes crinkle. Then, he raises his two index fingers, and draws a heart with them in the air.

Ed slams his arm against the bars in a crude, violent instinct, but the young man is already walking away, hands folded behind his back.

He sits back down on the bench and takes his glasses off to run his hands over his face. He hadn't wanted to admit to himself that Ignatius might be important to Oswald, but a display like this can't be coincidental, which begs the question: what else does he know? 

It's their past, not Oswald's to share freely. That's what that should mean—that it's _theirs_ , and no-one else's. Especially when it makes Ed look like a complete idiot. 

Footsteps sound nearby and he looks up to see Oswald and Montoya approaching. Montoya looks sour about the situation, like a child about to admit to being naughty, and the expression remains on her face as she unlocks the holding cell. 

Ed steps out, his throat suddenly dry. He can't bring himself to look away from Oswald, but Oswald's staring at Montoya.

“Right, so,” she clears her throat, mouth pursing, “Mr Nygma, there appears to have been a misunderstanding.” 

Ed keeps watching Oswald for any shred of emotion. Montoya's voice reaches him from far away. 

“The explosion at Mr Cobblepot's apartment was identified as a gas leak, and since he is clearly not dead, we will be closing the investigation. Mr Cobblepot?”

Oswald inhales sharply and seems to wake, his mouth pulling into a quick smile. 

“Clearly, yes.”

“And I understand you've decided not to press charges regarding the stalking, and the threatening messages?” she asks, blinking slowly. 

“Mr Nygma has…” Oswald scrunches his nose and squints above an obviously fake smile, “A unique sense of humour.” 

Ed clenches his jaw as Montoya unlocks the holding cell. Oswald doesn't wait to see him released; he heads for the door, his thugs flocking to him, Ignatius in tow. 

Montoya jingles the keys. “Any day now, Nygma.”

With a start, he shuffles out of the cell, and straightens himself out as best he can. He does a quick mental assessment of where he can go from here - with his warehouse burned, it would probably be wisest to pack up and move fully into his apartment before the GCPD acquires a warrant. 

This isn't how he wanted any of this to go. 

*

The drive home is strange. There is nothing much out of the ordinary about it, except that Oswald is acutely aware of the fact he isn't talking, and Ignatius is.

Ignatius usually talks. He's a very skilled talker - not conversationalist, necessarily, but he can fill any silence with calm, even narration of the world. It's usually what helps Oswald wind down after a long day; tonight, it's giving him a migraine. 

“I did have a tail pinned on Nygma, as per your usual order of things,” he says like he's remembering, “He packed up and left for his other place. The apartment.” 

The apartment. Oswald doesn't want to know any of this.

“Did I ask you to do that?” he asks, watching the window. The bridge flashes by like a flipbook, metal beams blending together. 

“No,” Ignatius replies, unbothered, “Thought you forgot.”

Oswald catches himself before he can scold him. The truth is he relies on Ignatius to do just this—make sure the engine of the empire runs smoothly, so that Oswald can think where to add cogs. 

“Thank you,” he says, suddenly overcome by a removed, guilty sort of affection. Ignatius is as old as Martin must be, now.

The silence lasts a beat too long, but Ignatius recovers smoothly, as always. “That's what I'm here for, boss.” 

Oswald nods. The affection is gone as soon as it appeared—Ignatius is right, there is no need for thanks. That's what he's here for. 

The forest swallows them. Ignatius is quiet, his elbow rested on the window frame, bright eyes watching the trees. 

“He's got his hooks into you, Boss.”

Oswald dislikes the prickle of curiosity in the back of his mind. He knows when he's being led.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asks. 

“Well, while you were talking to the commissioner, I went to have a word with him. I…” he clicks his tongue, “I defended you, obviously, but if all it takes to get you running is to capture Ed Nygma—it would be easier to uphold your reputation if I had the whole story.” 

He shoots Oswald a look. 

“If I knew how much I'm allowed to say, and what to steer away from.” 

A sharp spike of panic makes him blink. 

“You're not _allowed_ to say anything,” he grits, “About me and Edward Nygma.”

His heart only pounds harder. He has to swallow. He'd been dimly aware of some—drunken admissions, but they had been scattered and nondescript, nothing more than hints. Ed did this, Ed said that. Not confronted about them directly, he'd assumed Ignatius would politely let them fade into obscurity. He shouldn't have counted on it. 

Ignatius clears his throat, then leans forward, elbows on his knees. 

“You can trust me,” he says, voice low, “With anything.” 

Oswald bites his lip and laughs.

For a moment, Ignatius is stunned. He stares at him halfway through straightening up, hands hanging uselessly; his throat works. 

“Well,” Oswald glares at him, “Haven't I heard that before.” 

Ignatius sputters. “It's—come on, it's me.”

The car pulls into the driveway, gravel crunching under the wheels. It's late, the orange glow of the windows leaks out into the night. 

“I am very fond of you, Ignatius,” Oswald says lightly, almost cruelly to his own ears, “But make no mistake, you push me again, and things won't end well between us. You are not irreplaceable.” 

His stomach drops. It doesn't feel right to punish the boy for his own many lapses in judgement, but it's what has to be done. 

Ignatius swallows, but stays wisely silent.

“Now, I'll see you tomorrow.” Oswald pushes the door open and steps out, leaning heavily on his umbrella. 

He watches the sleek black shadow of the car circle back around and pull onto the road. 

He never learns. 


	5. V

Years of practice made Oswald a difficult man to reach when he did not want to be disturbed. Fortunately, years of practice had also made Edward exceptionally creative.

The first attempts at getting a message to him failed spectacularly: his text messages had gone unanswered, and any attempts to phone went immediately to voicemail. Thus, he decided to switch to a more direct approach.

The outright attempt to enter the Lounge during business hours resulted in Ed being thrown out on his arse by a particularly irate bouncer. His visit outside of operating hours fared even more poorly—with a goon chasing him away before he’d even gotten within 50 feet of the front door. 

He tried it all: bribes, threats, disguises, even a failed attempt to sneak in through the ventilation shaft. Each time, he found himself thwarted. Were this any other circumstance, he would have given props to Oswald’s new head of security, but the novelty of puzzling a new way to reach Oswald was quickly wearing off, leaving only frustration and desperation.

Finally, he shifts tactics. If he couldn’t get his hands on Oswald himself, he would do the next best thing.

For all of the elaborate safeguards surrounding the Iceberg Lounge, Ignatius is surprisingly lax about the security surrounding his own flat, and that would be his undoing. 

The apartment is quite big for such a young man, but that would be one of the perks of being in a crime family. It's very obviously new, and feels much like walking through IKEA, except for one or two silk shirts abandoned in a corner and a few liquor bottles. Oswald's influence is practically palpable, from the purple accent pillows on the sofa to the hideous kitchen counter; he's always had an eye for interior decorating, but over the last couple of years, he's meandered from distinguished to somewhat tacky. 

Of course, the defining difference is that Oswald would never blunder so obviously—because while the front door is reinforced, the balcony door isn't. If Ignatius were to make it very long in this Bat-infested city, it’s a lesson he would have to learn sooner rather than later. Ed is happy to oblige.

“Don’t move so much,” Ed says to Ignatius’ bound form, just starting to regain consciousness and squirm in the chair, “You’re just going to give yourself a headache.” 

He doesn’t know why he bothers, for the second Ignatius recognized his voice, he redoubles his efforts, growing more frantic.

“Oh, for christ’s sake. What you’re doing is pointless—you’re not getting out of those bonds. Not until I’m through with you, at any rate.”

The struggling decreases, and Ignatius cranes his neck to look at him.

“Great plan,” he nervously tugs at the bindings, “Ambush Penguin's right-hand man, see what happens. I'm the apple of his fucking eye. He picked me up off the street, he—”

“All right, shut up,” Ed sits on the kitchen counter and joins his hands, pointing them at Ignatius. “You don't do well under pressure, do you?”

Ignatius licks his lips. “This doesn't look too good for me, unless you haven't noticed.” 

“Doesn't it?” Ed spreads his hands and glances around, “I haven't taken you from your house, I haven't gagged you. I haven't hurt you. What does that tell you?”

Ignatius furrows his brow. There is sweat beading on his forehead, under his eyes. 

“You want to talk,” he concludes. 

“Exactly,” Ed leans in, “So, can I count on you not to run into my knife if I untie you?” 

Ignatius looks him in the eye, as if he can't quite believe what's happening. Not so brave without his thugs, or bars between them—it's a joy to watch. 

“Sure, yeah,” he mutters like a college student before a drug test, “Untie me.”

“One thing,” Ed leans in and rests the tip of the knife on his chest, “You may be clever, and Oswald may be fond of you, but if you think he won't forgive me in the event of your death—think about what happened to your predecessor.” 

Ignatius makes a strange, subtly worried noise. “What happened to my predecessor?”

Ed scoffs.

“Well, I killed him!” he snaps, “Obviously!”

“Oh.” 

With a sigh, he circles the chair and cuts through the ties. Standing, Ignatius tears the tape off his wrists and throws it to the ground in clumps. 

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks lightly, turning to face him. 

Ed uses the knife to point at the counter, where a cloth napkin folded into a dove sits on the tacky faux stone. 

“I need you to get this to Oswald.” 

Ignatius exhales loudly through his nose. “And why would I do that?”

Ed pointedly turns his gaze to the knife. Ignatius swallows, but keeps his cool. 

“I could just take that thing, go straight to Oswald, and tell him you broke into my place,” he says, quickly wiping the sweat from his forehead, “He's already on the warpath. Sure, maybe under normal circumstances, he would forgive you, but I mean, you've really pissed him off this time.” 

He presses a hand to his temple. With slow, deliberate steps, he walks over to the counter and picks up the dove. He turns the folded napkin in his hands and Ed involuntarily tenses at the possibility of it unravelling.

“Of course,” he grins, “I _could_ make sure the message gets to him.” 

A flicker of hope passes through Ed before suspicion promptly douses it. 

“What do you want in return?”

Ignatius puts the dove down gently, links his hands behind his back and steps closer. “Tell me about Penguin. My employer is a secretive man and you two have history.” He tips his head back, eyes faintly challenging. “Who exactly are you to him?” 

_Who are you to him?_

Fuck if he knows at this point. 

“That’s none of your business.”

Ignatius clicks his tongue. “See, that just won't do.” 

“If there's something you want to know, you should ask him yourself.” He adjusts his glasses. 

“You think I haven't tried that?” Ignatius rolls his eyes, “Fuck, with how guarded you both are, you'd think you two had the most scandalous affair to ever offend Gotham's polite circles.” He thinks for a second, eyes lighting up. “Is that why he lost the mayor's office? An illicit affair with the chief of staff?” 

Ed glares at him. “No, that's not—”

“You think I care?” Ignatius raises his hands, “I don't. I want what's best for the family. And I want to be able to understand him.”

“Well,” Ed sits down in the now vacant chair, “Start by understanding that people don't appreciate having assumptions made about them.”

“So, that's not what happened, then?” 

“No,” he replies coldly, “Oswald lost the mayor's office because I instigated it.”

“And he was so impressed, he fell head over heels for you? Come on.” 

Ignatius shakes his head in disbelief, all but twinkling with curiosity.

Ed says nothing. 

“What a shame,” Ignatius stands, flicking the napkin onto the floor behind him, “Looks like we’re done here. You can see yourself out.” 

He nearly makes it to the door before Ed can cut him off. He crosses his arms on his chest and raises an eyebrow, challenging. Ed thoroughly regrets removing the ties.

“Wait: a secret, a vocation, and all of Jack. Put something in and get me back. What am I?” when he gets no response he elaborates, “How about information on _me_ instead?” 

He knows that it’s a terrible idea the second it leaves his mouth, but there’s no better option. Karma, he supposes. He looks up to find Ignatius paused before the door, gaze analytical and sharp. 

He smiles until his cheeks dimple and settles back against the doorframe.

“That'll do. Very well, then, Mr Nygma. What do you have to offer?”

He takes a deep breath. He has not talked freely about himself since he was a teenager, and the tightness about his chest is surprisingly sharp and unpleasant.

“My family name is Nashton.” The silence that follows that statement is unbearable. He swallows the sudden dryness in his throat. “I changed it when I moved to Gotham and started university. I have a degree in biochemistry and worked for the police for five years…”

*

Oswald's elbow slips off the edge of the table.

He sits up and realises some of the bourbon in his glass has splashed over his lip. His annoyance at his own clumsiness sobers him up a little, so he sets the glass down with a thud and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. The empty booth he's in retains its judgemental silence.

“Ignatius!” he yells, slamming his fist down on the table. Dimly, he thinks he should rein it in a little, but the thought disappears as quickly as it came.

He straightens himself out and ignores the faint chatter coming from behind the ornate black door. It swings open a moment later, and in comes the young man, a pleasant look on his face.

“Yes, Boss?” 

“Where have you been?” he takes the glass up again.

“Just around the Lounge, Boss. Making sure everything's running smoothly.” He walks up, but doesn't join him on the lacquered black leather seat. “Would you like to head home for the night?” 

Though his voice is level, something seems _off_ about his demeanour, like a cat who’s got his cream. The change is subtle, something one could easily overlook, but Oswald would not have survived this long if he couldn’t pick up on details. But it is, after all, Ignatius; not enough to warrant thinking about it _too_ much, especially since the bourbon’s long gone to his head and the room is starting to spin. 

Oswald still feels unsure about being locked in a car with him for the entire duration of the drive out of Gotham. 

“It's early,” he grumbles. “What's got you so cheery?”

“Nothing in particular. I can take care of things,” he studies Oswald carefully, and when he speaks again, he's adopted a quieter, more familiar tone. “Are you feeling alright, Boss? You've been in here a while.” 

He grits his teeth. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I'll go up to my office in a moment.”

“Should I wait for you there?”

“Read my mind.” 

Ignatius flashes him a smile and turns on his heel, heading out. Oswald winces at the slam of the door. 

He removes his monocle and buries his face in his hands, curling in on himself. It's the only room in the Lounge that doesn't have any kind of surveillance, and he knows it for a fact. Even his office has cameras, and typically, that is what keeps him calm and distanced even when he's on the verge of a meltdown - but today, it's just too far away. 

His eyes sting. Not in a teary way, but because they're dry and puffy from crying before. He doesn't think he's spent a goddamn hour sober since—

What a mess. His fingers glide almost unprompted over the short, prickly hair at the base of his skull. Until only recently, losing Ed had never seemed like a real possibility. Sure, they still fought, but after the battle, he had known - with a certainty he hadn't had since his mother - that there was nothing he could do that might cost him Ed. 

As it turns out, he hadn't accounted for what Ed could do to him. 

Well, this time, things are different. This time Oswald won't let him. If it's over, then it's over, and it feels less like a decision now than it does a final confirmation of something he has known for years. 

He inhales sharply, swallows the snot, and gets up. Leaning heavily on his cane, he makes his way to the lift and goes up to his office. None of his security look him in the eye.

Inside, he finds Ignatius sprawled out on the sofa, his phone in his hands. There is something sitting on Oswald's desk. He hobbles closer to examine it. 

It's a white restaurant napkin, folded neatly to resemble a dove. 

“Ignatius,” he asks flatly, “What the fuck is this?”

“Oh, that?” Ignatius sits up and drapes an arm over the backrest to look back at him. “Wow, where did that come from? I didn't notice that at all.” 

Oswald thumps the end of his can on the floor. 

“You didn't?” he repeats, slow and pronounced. 

Ignatius presses his chin into his neck and cheerfully shakes his head. “No, sir, didn', sir.” 

Oswald lets out a long, pained sigh. 

“Ignatius,” he says, “I'll ask you one more time. What… the fuck… is that?”

“Not a clue,” Ignatius says, swinging his legs off the sofa and wisely making for the door, “Ciao.”

The dove mocks him with an eyeless face. 

He unfolds the napkin. A single line of green, looped script stares back at him: 

“Tomorrow, 7 P.M. - at my namesake.”

*

It’s five minutes until their meeting time and Oswald still has not arrived. This shouldn’t be surprising—Oswald rarely arrives anywhere early. Yet this fails to reassure Ed, anxiously twirling one of the lilies in the centrepiece vase. Growing distracted, he lets his wrist settle on the rim. The vase shifts under the pressure and almost falls over; his hands shoot forward to steady it, making his knife cling loudly against the edge of his plate. The clatter rings uncomfortably through the otherwise silent restaurant. 

Could he be sure that Ignatius really passed on his message? He must have. Had he not, Ed finds it difficult to believe that Oswald would keep him around, much less trust a man who isn’t worth his word. Then again, he does have a history of doing just that.

Ed sighs and chases away the notion. If he were to be stood up today, it would be Oswald’s doing. Nobody else’s.

There is something comforting in that; a sort of finality. After all, what is there left to salvage? Ed can explain, but Oswald would be a fool to believe him. No matter how he looks at it, it's cruel. 

Precisely on the hour Oswald strides through the door. He moves brusquely, with only a nod to their maître d’. Before Ed can greet him, he’s already sat in the chair across from him, regarding him coldly, his fingers interlaced.

Ed feels like an insect being dissected on a metal tray under that analytical gaze. He fights the urge to squirm in his seat, to shift his shoulders back and away from Oswald’s scrutiny. Instead, he takes a silent breath, meets his eyes, and waits. 

“Why am I here, Ed?”

He has known Oswald for a long time. There are people who don't change; people who, when faced with extreme circumstances, hold their ground—Oswald adapts. 

He pulls in a breath to steady himself. Whatever the cost, he is desperate not to make even more of a bumbling idiot of himself here. This is where he fixes things. 

“Thank you for coming,” he says. That seems a safe bet. 

“Don't make me wait,” Oswald raises his eyebrows, but the playful tone only partly masks the chill in his voice. 

Ed sighs. Nobody is taking their order; anyway, if he ate now, he might throw up. 

“I owe you an apology,” he rests his hands on the table, “But also an explanation. I—”

“No explanations,” Oswald cuts him off and he goes dead silent, like a freshly recruited thug might when Penguin glares at him. “That apology. Try that.” 

Ed licks his lips. “I don't want to apologise yet.”

“What?”

“I don't want to… apologise.” 

Oswald blinks slowly. Ed finds himself studying him; the dark suit with a gold tie, the damning eye, squinted, his pupil a black hole. It's not a good thing to think about when he already feels uncharacteristically guilty. 

He clears his throat. “I think we can both agree I have poor impulse control.”

“Edward,” Oswald leans in as well, elbows resting on the table, “You are a dear friend. There isn't much left for you to do that I couldn't forgive.” His eyes are wide and blue, his mouth pursed. “But if you waste another second of my time—”

Ed crumbles. “Fine, I'm sorry.” 

Oswald's mouth stays open for a moment, then shuts, his eyes still cold. 

“And as for the explanation,” Ed tips his head forward, “I'm trying. It's difficult.” 

“How about I tell you,” Oswald shifts in his chair, “What it looked like to me—and you can tell me what the hell your thought process was. Does that work?” he plasters a fake smile on his face and squints his eyes.

Ed sighs. “Don't... look at me like that.” 

“To me, it seemed like you saw an opportunity to win, and you took it, with no consideration for how it might affect me,” he's getting riled up again, “And now you're ashamed. How shocking. Ed Nygma is ashamed.”

He presses the back of his hand to his mouth as he briefly stares at the wall. Ed watches his chest rise in a deep breath.

“I need you to be an adult about this,” Oswald turns to him again, “Or we are getting nowhere.” 

“Oswald,” he closes his eyes, squeezes the bridge of his nose, “Please just give me the benefit of the doubt.”

A strange expression passes over Oswald's face. His voice is not as sharp when he speaks, but instead torn, pained. “You'll excuse my reluctance.” 

“Don't you know that I wouldn't do that to you?” Ed leans in, “Don't you know that?”

Oswald sits back, eyes drifting. “You did do it.” 

“No. No, I just saw you, and…” 

His voice dies in his throat. He didn't think it would; he would laugh at himself, if his mouth wasn't so dry, and his hands so cold.

His shoulders drop. 

“Just… give me a chance to tell you everything,” he presses, “There is more to it than you think.”

He sees Oswald's cheek shift like he's biting it. 

“So,” he purses his lips, cheeks dimpling, and pulls in a breath. “Where do we begin?”

Ed clenches his jaw, closes his fist under the table—then, slowly, opens it. He swallows. 

“Dinner?” 

Oswald concedes gracefully, then raises a hand and snaps his fingers a few times. A waiter shuffles out from seemingly nowhere, dragging his feet at first, but quickly picking up the pace.

“May I take your order, Mr Cobblepot?”

“Chateaubriand for me, and Tournedos Rossini for my friend,” Oswald says without a hitch, making Ed wonder what exactly he's playing at, “Make mine medium rare, his well done. And _where_ is the wine list?” 

The waiter's mask of a face turns a shade paler.

“Never mind. Something good, from the bottom of the list,” Oswald waves him off, “Go. Go!”

The man scurries away as politely as only a professional waiter can. A few moments later, another comes by with the wine.

Ed swallows. 

“I don't know how you can eat meat that's still bleeding.” 

Oswald raises an eyebrow. “Don't you eat sushi?”

“Sushi doesn't bleed.” 

“It's still raw meat. And why doesn't it, anyway?” 

Ed crosses his legs. “Well, the fish is bled beforehand. Unbled meat is reddish in colour, often has blood spots, and makes folding difficult.” He smiles a little at Oswald's expression. “What?”

He chuckles. “And you just _know_ that.” 

“I read it in a book, once,” Ed shrugs. 

Two years ago; his memory, though impeccable, has been invaded and altered enough times to leave him with several gaps, especially from his time at Arkham, which was nothing but a drugged-up haze—but facts, numbers and dates tend to stick. He still remembers most of what he learned in school.

Oswald's smiling at him. He hasn't done much of that as of late, not earnestly. 

Ed is suddenly and brutally reminded of why they're here—of what he came here to say. His pulse skyrockets; he can't stand another minute of uncertainty, of sharing space with the secret of it between them. 

“Okay, here goes,” he pulls in a breath, lifting both hands off the table, “I'm in love with you.”

Oswald stares. 

His eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead, lips tightening into a thin line. He rests an elbow on the table and tucks his hand under his chin.

“Try again.” 

“I am,” Ed repeats, “And I have been. For years.” 

“No, no,” he waves a hand about, “No, I am not—”

“Listen to me,” Ed grabs his wrist and pins it to the table with a clatter of silverware. 

He expects Oswald to rip free, so he keeps his grip tight—but Oswald's arm goes slack under the touch. Their eyes meet. Ed quickly withdraws.

“I'm telling you this,” he says, emboldened, “because I don't want you to think I did it to win. I did it because I wanted to.” He drums his fingers on the edge of the table. “And I truly do... apologise. I shouldn't have done it like that.” 

He exhales, finally allowing himself to look away. He doesn't like this; he doesn't like feeling so seen, so completely at another person's mercy. It sends a wave of embarrassed heat through his temples, then his throat, followed by thudding stress. He can hear this heartbeat in his ears.

He watches the brilliant, deep red of the wine pool and ripple in the glass. Oswald doesn't reach for his, either. 

A silence stretches between them, broken only when the waiter comes and sets down two plates in front of them. Grateful for the break in tension, he reaches for his knife and fork. His heart is still hammering and nausea churns deep in his stomach, but he would make an effort to eat, if only just to give himself a welcome distraction.

“Since when?” 

He looks up again, startled. Oswald hasn’t moved an inch and is still staring at him, _through_ him. He backtracks to find the context to his words. Since when, indeed. It's strange, unsettling to think about, that he might've loved Oswald ten years ago, twelve years ago… 

“I don't know.” 

“You don't know?” Oswald nods, sharp, “So do you, or don't you?” 

“I can't tell you exactly. I hated you,” Ed shakes his head, “I wanted you dead. How do you begin to allow yourself—I just didn't know.”

Ed opens his mouth again, but finds himself too anxious to add anything. Oswald chuckles. 

“Fate has a sense of humour, then.” 

“I don't appreciate being mocked,” he says, but it comes out far softer than the threat he'd intended it to be. 

“I'm not mocking you, Ed,” he sighs, “I'm not.” 

Finally, that piercing gaze is off of him, as Oswald turns to his steak and slices into it. His next breath comes unexpectedly lighter. 

They eat in silence. The ambiance is slightly less frigid.

“So what was it,” Oswald says between mouthfuls of steak, “clearly something must have changed for you to have this realisation.”

Ed swallows. “Maybe I'll tell you later.”

“Oh, later?”

“Maybe.” 

Oswald smiles; he doesn't push again for the rest of the meal, allowing Ed to leisurely steer the conversation towards safer topics. Oswald wants to know about the explosives, and when he managed to plant them; Ed discreetly inquires about the alarm system put in place in Oswald's office. 

Maybe they are evenly matched. Maybe there is no way of knowing; but Ed has, over the years, steadily learned to accept certain things for what they are.

He folds his knife and fork together. He's done eating. There is an almost palpable tension in the air, and for a moment, he can't bring himself to look Oswald in the eye.

Then, his confidence returns. He glances up. 

“So,” Oswald takes the napkin from his lap and drops it coquettishly over the rim of the plate, “What happens next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Tell us what lies in the depths of your soul.


	6. Epilogue

He can still turn this around. He wipes the sweat from his eyes and takes a sharp turn well above the speed limit. The smell of burning rubber and icy air hits his nostrils through the shattered window and he ducks, hearing a ricochet ping off the metal door. Too close. His blood sings in his veins. 

He rounds a corner. His heart is pounding and his breaths are shallow, but he is smiling, so gleefully his cheeks hurt. He reaches into the passenger seat to fetch his hat, but it's fallen into the leg space, out of reach--as he leans down to get it, a sharp impact to the side of the car jolts him sideways to the scream of metal tearing up metal. He evens out, assessing the damage through the cracked windshield; he's lost a headlight, and doesn't even know how.

"Son of a bitch," he whispers, glancing back at the sleek black car in pursuit. 

Feeling like he's pushing his luck, he keeps an ear out for sirens. He desperately hopes the car will hold together for a few more streets; just a few more, and he can still—

He slams the brakes and throws the door open, toppling out of the car in a mass of elbows and knees. As he kneels on the snow-covered pavement and pries his fingers underneath the metal garage door, he does a mental tally of his weapons. He has a gun on him, some blades, a small amount of explosives--but those would bring the roof of the rickety old building down for sure, it's a house of cards as it is, a thin layer of old Gotham brick, windows without a single pane of glass intact. He puts his gun carefully on the ground, then strains and pushes the garage door up, letting the mechanism slide it the rest of the way, then ducks his head and shuffles inside.

Old, yellow light bulbs flicker noisily to life overhead. Ed hears the squeak of tires behind him and quickly pulls the garage door back down, forgetting the gun. He swears and glances around in search of a different weapon.

His eyes land on an old, beaten up car, and with one foot braced against the chassis he tears off a windshield wiper. Gripping the blade like a spear, he hurries deeper into the garage.   
The dim light brings little definition to the shadows and shapes in the dark—there is some light coming in through a few old, created windows, but the space is still bathed in dark greys and browns. Ed almost trips over a discarded tire and quickly places his free hand on the wall, just in case. 

He doesn't need to see clearly to know where he is. Before him spreads an old, dusty and ramshackle maze built from panes of plastic, metal sheets and barbed wire, an old, now-boring thing he has little interest in revisiting in further projects. He does remember the layout, though, and he can safely assume Oswald does not—so he makes his way through. 

The labyrinth curls and twines through the occasionally glittering dark of the garage. It is not the only death trap stored here; shoved into the corners, hanging from the ceiling, and placed haphazardly over the walls of the maze are countless other discarded inventions, just waiting to fall on top of anyone foolish enough to disturb them.

The sun has long gone down by the time he emerges into an alleyway. The frosty night air is a welcome contrast to the must and dust from underground and he breathes in deeply, exhaling a cloud of vapor. As the adrenaline begins to fade, he becomes aware of his limbs, aching and heavy from the strain. Nonetheless, he pushes forward. He clings to the shadows of the alley, moving a tick too quickly—a touch too attentive to keeping away from the streetlights’ glow to be leisurely. He shouldn’t be far now. If he calculated correctly--there.

The town car is parked around the corner, on a street where no lights shine. Nonetheless, its glossy paint is bathed in moonlight and its telltale vintage model gives it away.  
The movement catches his eye—a fur-wrapped figure leaning against the car struggling to flick on a lighter with half-frozen fingers. Ed slips the switchblade from his pocket and springs it open, approaching silently.

He nearly makes it to the car before he’s spotted. The figure/man pulls himself to full height, dropping the cigarette and scrambling for a weapon. Ed is faster. Within a matter of seconds he has him pinned to the car, knife to his throat. He struggles, but the movement only presses the blade’s point deeper into the soft skin. Ignatius’ face catches the moonlight and he snarls.

“Careful, Nygma. Penguin will forgive a lot of things, but not even you could come back from scratching the paint on his favourite car.”

He digs the knife in deeper, though, as an afterthought, does shift his knee away from the car door.

“And how is your boss? I’ve been looking for him.”

“I’ll point the way--go take a long walk off a short pier.”

Ed grimaces at the choice of phrasing, preparing a retort. Instead, he realizes with a start that Ignatius’s eyes are not on him at all, instead focused just past his shoulder. Before he even has the chance to react, he’s on the ground, cheek pressed into the dirty snow. He tries to stand up, but he barely makes it to a sitting position before he’s pinned to the cold, wet sidewalk by a familiar weight. Oswald’s hand on his chest pushes him back to the ground, the other splayed over his neck. His eyes shine wildly in the moonlight. He leans in and his face blurs out of focus.

Warm lips press against his own. Ed can feel the snowy slush seeping into his clothes, but he wouldn't move away for the world.

Oswald pulls back, still smiling.

“That’s one-love, isn’t it?” 

"Two-love. Again."

Ed props himself up on his elbows and struggles into a sitting position, then plants a counter-kiss on the tip of his nose. 

"You fight dirty." 

Oswald gives him a charming smile and they help each other up, eager to get out of the snow before the round resets.

Ignatius rolls his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with us to the end! We hope you enjoyed it. Let us know your thoughts and comments. :)


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